


80 to 104

by jillcalt



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Eating Disorders, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Trigger Warning!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2656643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillcalt/pseuds/jillcalt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten. Minutes. Left. I finally get to leave this bed. I have been here for 2 weeks. 2 weeks of gain, gain, and more gain. I came in at 80 and left at 104. Gosh, I want that 80 back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	80 to 104

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this is TW, so proceed at your own risk. I actually wrote this in school for a grade. It was so awkward handing this into my teacher, but she never said anything, fortunately. Anyways, hopefully you enjoy it.

Ten. Minutes. Left. I finally get to leave this bed. I have been here for 2 weeks. 2 weeks of gain, gain, and more gain. I came in at 80 and left at 104. Gosh, I want that 80 back.

My parents split when I was 12 years old and I got stuck with my awful mother. She is forceful and will not take “no” for an answer. The whole time I have been here, I’ve been stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey. Pasta, bread, muffins. I don’t want to touch food ever again. If only Mom didn’t go through my phone, I could’ve been 80 right now.

14 days have been dragging on like a Monday. Eat, eat, eat. I didn’t even get a minute to rest or a word in edgewise. I have a plan to lose these 24 pounds encasing my thighs, arms, and back. My plan: fast, fast, fast. I am not staying with my mother in that dreaded apartment any longer, 6 years is long enough. At my father’s, there is only a small price to pay. The journal.

The journal is where I must weigh on that thing called a “scale” and write it down. Every. Morning. When I was 15, 3 years ago, I tweaked with it a bit to add 5 extra pounds. My father is so clueless, the reason why my mother left. As I approach the house closer and closer, wheels slowly spinning down, a thought comes to mind.

It is hidden under my mountain of socks. I sprint up to my room as fast as I can. I have had so much pain and sorrow built up between my bones, in my organs, and floating in the empty canals in my brain. It flows through me like an adrenaline rush. The little red lines, some deep, some small, red trickling down my arms and thighs. I watch as the ghosts and pain float out, one by one.

The thing is, once you get to 90, you crave 80, 80 makes you crave 70. The worst part is, it is all possible. At 80 everything starts to shut down, but you can make it by. I know all of this isn’t right, it’s bad for me. I have been warned and brought into faculties left and right, but I don’t want to stop. It is something I can control all on my own, without anyone knowing. It’s easier than it looks. It is hard to stop, but I don’t want to stop. It takes over, it’s an illness. You know it’s wrong, you know it’s bad for you, but yet, you want to continue, you don’t care about your health. All you want is smaller, smaller, smaller.

As I take the little box out from underneath the mountain of socks. I grab the rope along with it. As I lay in the tub, little red lines trickle down my thighs, arms, and stomach.

“Goodbye,” I whisper.


End file.
